The Calm After the Storm

A girl battles with her self-harm addiction, but who will win? The girl or the addiction?

Submitted: November 07, 2012

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Submitted: November 07, 2012

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“Do it!”

“You’re a terrible person, you deserve this.”

“You’re ugly, and fat, why not add this to it?”

“Nobody will notice anyway, since no one cares about you.”

The voices in my head were screaming at me, and I sat on my bed covering my ears, crying, the razor sitting in front of me. I stared at it, while the tears ran down my face. Why was this happening
to me? Why couldn’t I be someone who didn’t enjoy slicing her skin open and watching it bleed? Why couldn’t I be normal?

I slammed my fists down on my bed in frustration, then grabbed the razor. I examined my legs first, scars covering my thighs. Long ones, short ones, pink ones, white ones; they were all over. I
lifted up my shirt to look at my stomach, which wasn’t much better than my thighs. The only difference was there were some relatively fresh cuts on my stomach. Every inch of my arms were
practically covered; there were even some spots where scars overlapped. My wrists are my favorite place to cut though. I only save them for special occasions, like tonight.

There’s something beautiful, and special about looking down at your wrist and seeing the cuts there. It’s comforting almost. Sure I get relief from cutting in general, but my wrist gave me the most
comfort.

I brought my razor to my wrist, pressed down slightly and drew it across my skin. I felt my body relax as I felt my skin open beneath the blade. A beam of red appeared from my skin, and I smiled.
The tears had stopped flowing by now, and the voices in my head were silent. I could breathe again. I laid back against my pillow, setting my razor down beside me. I looked down at my wrist again
and saw a trickle of blood work it’s down my arm. I grabbed a tissue, and lay it beneath my arm so it wouldn’t stain my bed.

This is the feeling that I craved; the calm after the storm. It quieted the rage of voices in my head for a little while. My body felt relaxed, not tense like it normally did. My heart didn’t feel
heavy, and every breath didn’t feel like a struggle. I could be worry free for a while, until it would start again, and then I’d have to do this again. I didn’t mind of course. After all, I
deserved this. I deserved to let out my dirty, useless blood. I deserved to cover my body in scars.

For some reason, the calm didn’t last as long as it normally did. Before I knew it, my heart felt heavy and I could feel my anxiety increasing. No, no, no. I’m supposed to have hours, maybe even a
day before this happens again. Shit. I needed to stop it before the voices started. I grabbed my razor and just started slicing any part of my body that I could. My wrist, forearm, upper arm,
shoulder, stomach, thigh, calf, ankle, hips, hands. But it wasn’t working properly, the voices were coming anyway. So I started pressing deeper, thinking maybe I wasn’t doing a good enough job. At
this point, I was pleading for the voices to stop. It was only when I took a breath in between sobs that I realized they were saying something different this time.

“Die.”

“Die.”

“Die.”

“Die.”

I didn’t hesitate to obey. I cut again, and again and again. Red lines appearing everywhere, blood dripping down my body. The voices kept chanting and I kept listening. After all, the voices are
always right.

I don’t know how much time had passed, but I could feel myself drifting away. The blood leaving my body for what must have been hours now. I was sitting in a pool of my blood, and my bedroom was
fading. The sky blue wallpaper I had since I was a childhood was slipping from my sight. My stuffed animals sat in a corner staring back at me, as if wondering what I had just done. I laughed at
them inside my head; they wouldn’t understand.

And before I knew it, I could really feel it. My body leaving this world. This harsh, cruel world. I thought of my mom, who would be the unfortunate one to discover my body. My father who would
follow close behind. And my unborn baby sister, who would never know what a failure her older sister was. This floating feeling, this is what I craved. The calm after the storm, and finally, I
knew, the storm wouldn’t be returning. All was calm.

That was kinda intence but i liked it. 1 question though.This is all u write about almost.Did this happen to you? And the 89 pounds,i like it but did that happen 2 u too?

AuthorReply

Comment | 50 words

Fri, November 23rd, 2012 7:05pm

Majority of my work is inspired by emotions of my own, and are exaggerated. Nothing in 89 Pounds has ever happened to me, that was probably one of the few pieces that wasn't personal in any way. This specific one is an exaggerated version of what I used to deal with.